


The Reading Room

by compo67



Series: The Chicago Verse [134]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Grumpy Dean Winchester, Grumpy Old Men, Hospitals, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Outsider, POV Third Person, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 01:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Outsider POV.Dr. Aaron Kennedy, Vascular Neurologist, recently transferred hospitals. There's never fresh coffee in the Reading Room, but that soon proves to be the least of his worries.





	The Reading Room

Why is there never fresh coffee in the Reading Room? 

At least this Reading Room doesn’t have the illustrious nickname ‘The Crying Room,’ like at his old hospital. The nickname was painfully accurate. He’d go there to read MRIs, X-Rays, and online charts on overly complicated computers only to find one or two of his colleagues crying and ranting about their choice of profession. 

It wasn’t something anyone prepared him for in med school.

If he had known how terrible the coffee would be at this hospital, he’d have thought twice about transferring. Unfortunately, the name and prestige lured him in. The University of Chicago may provide its staff with shit-tacular coffee, an outdated cafeteria, and horrible parking, but dammit, it offers more research opportunities… to senior doctors who have been with the University for more than thirty years. 

Aaron sighs and pushes his styrofoam cup away. He’s thirty seconds away from making this his new Crying Room. He paid thousands of dollars and went through twelve years of education and training for this? He didn’t even get a lousy t-shirt out of it. Northwestern’s colors look terrible on him.

Stop.

Think happy thoughts. He’s a goddamn Vascular Neurologist--that’s something to be proud of. 

Right?

It’s no use. He should have stayed at Lutheran General out in the burbs. Yeah, the only reserved parking for doctors was practically a country mile away, but the board provided such good reasoning. By seeing doctors set out on two mile hikes, it would set a good example for the patients. 

One winter, he set a very good example for a family of six when he fell ass over tea kettle on a patch of black ice and swore--loudly. 

But at least he received some funding for his research. Institutional prestige doesn’t cut it these days. 

He’s ten years into being an MD. He climbed and clawed his way up from his residency to earn that fucking title. And now? He’ll be seventy years old by the time UC deems him worthy of any substantial funding. Maybe he’s in the wrong field. Maybe he should look into transplant cases. Or drop everything entirely and open up a food truck that sells breakfast burritos and decent coffee.

Research hospitals force their staff to compete for funding. Aaron doesn’t mind a little competition. He can effectively and successfully defend himself from five attackers by using nothing but a knife and some gumption--but he just can’t seem to impress the board.

“Ready in room thirteen,” Nurse Page announces, tossing a file at him. “The partner’s arguing with the valet or something, but your patient’s in there.” 

“Thanks,” Aaron mumbles and stands up, joints popping. 

He’s been sitting too long, which is rare. Usually his FitBit would show about eight thousand steps by this point in his day. A quick check shows only six. 

Well, no time like the present. 

Gathering up the files sent over by the patient’s previous medical care team at a different, competing research hospital in the city, Aaron hopes the rest of his day goes by quick and painless. Like a flu shot. No. Wait. He needs to stop comparing things to flu shots. 

Campbell, room thirteen. 

Should he open with first names or go for more formal? 

The patient’s here for a second opinion, which, to Aaron, means they have incredible insurance. This also means they probably haven’t received sufficient explanation or care at their first hospital and likely hope to switch to UC. To him, the board, and the hospital overall, this patient is a prospective long term customer. He needs to impress this patient, convince them to transfer their care over, and retain them as a regular. Everything and anything all comes back to the hospital’s bottom line.

No pressure or anything. 

Aaron walks into room thirteen and expects to see his patient seated on the exam table, awaiting his arrival. Instead, he sees his patient standing at the single window in the room, looking outside.

Taller than anyone has any right to be, his patient turns around at the sound of the door opening. 

“Sam Winchester,” Aaron blurts out. “I…” Thought you were dead? Thought your brother took your body and buried you in a secret tomb after that one legendary fight against hell? “I’m Dr. Kennedy.” 

Good save.

The living legend that is Sam Winchester smiles and simply says, “Howdy. Nice to meet you.”

“We’ve met before. I wasn’t… well, the record says Sam Campbell.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember meeting?”

“Why would you?” Aaron forces out a laugh, fighting his anxiety and losing spectacularly. “It was twenty years ago. I was on the fence about sticking with med school or switching to law.”

“Well.” Sam shakes Aaron’s hand, then sits in one of the two chairs for patients in the room. “I’m glad you stuck with it.” 

Aaron nods and takes his seat--an uncomfortable rolling stool. “Ah, um, the name on the record…”

“It was Dean’s idea. You know the type.”

Hunters. Always going by at least three different names, aliases, or nom de plumes. 

With another disarmingly charming smile, Sam adds, “I also refused to use the last name Plant.” 

“I remember that. Dean always liked picking last names from bands,” Aaron replies, finding it difficult to make eye contact. He starts up the computer, punches in his login credentials, and impatiently taps on the mouse. “Uh… Does he still listen to Zeppelin?” 

Sam sits up straight. His eyes follow Aaron’s movements in an observant and piercing way most patients--most people--don’t do. 

“Is the sky blue? He’s trying to track down an unreleased album done right before Zeppelin broke up. I keep telling him it’s a rumor, but he’s obsessed and I’m tired.”

Aaron glances at Sam’s vitals on screen, which Page collected, all in normal range. Sam Campbell and Sam Winchester are the same person. He has to treat Sam Winchester the way he’d have treated Sam Campbell. 

This is no time to panic. 

This is the time to use his perfected small talk laugh. “That sounds like Dean.” 

Is he fan girling? Is he intimidated? Is he… afraid? Yes, yes, and yes. 

Focus. Calm down and focus. This is his last patient of the day. After this, he can retreat to his office, bury himself in paperwork, take an Uber home, drink, and forget about all of this. Or... replay it in his head a thousand times and criticize what he could have done better in hindsight. That scenario is probably more likely. He could barely sleep the night after he saw Sir Elton John as a patient. 

In terms of anxiety-inducing awe, he’d pick Sir Elton as a patient over Sam Winchester any day. 

Not because Sam is outwardly terrifying. 

He’s quite the opposite. 

Calm. Easygoing. Charming. Handsome. He’s aged well for the boy who would be King of Hell. 

Aaron closes his eyes for the tiniest of moments. Regroup. C’mon brain cells, kick in. Picture home. Picture the fuzzy blue slippers his niece bought him for Christmas last year. 

Picture Bobby Singer calling him at two in the morning, ordering him to jump in his car and drive three hundred miles to South Fucking Dakota to take care of a wounded hunter. As with any favors called in from Bobby, when Aaron got there, it was complete chaos. None of the usual methods Bobby had tried were working to remove a bullet from the hunter’s left shoulder blade. 

For two desperate minutes, Aaron insisted to Bobby that he had never removed a bullet from someone before, much less in their shoulder, and much,  _ much _ less had done something so hands on. He was a med student. S-T-U-D-E-N-T. Meaning, hadn’t actually treated anyone. His whole job was to stand there, watch the doctor or the nurse, shut up, and learn. 

“I’m sure you’ve had much more experience since way back in the day,” Sam says. “Going from working on a dirty table in Bobby’s kitchen, digging bullets out of shoulders to Vascular Neurologist is quite the leap.”

Eyes snapped open, Aaron freezes. 

“Oh shit,” he groans and shakes his head. “You’re psychic, aren’t you?” 

Sam smiles. Dimples flash. “A teeny bit.” 

Aaron bites his bottom lip. Should he ask to test this? 

His stomach grumbles for food. The onion bagel he had at lunch seems like three lifetimes ago. 

“You had an onion bagel for lunch. Though, I suppose that doesn’t necessarily prove anything, I could just have a good sense of smell.”

“Do I smell?” 

“No!” Sam puts his hands up and laughs. “No, not at all. We actually got your name referred to us through the hunter grapevine. I just didn’t put two and two together. When we first met, I was kinda blitzed on whiskey and trying not to scream too much.” 

“Good thing there’s background to that last part,” Aaron mumbles and takes a deep breath. “Uh. Should we get started?” 

“Can I show you something first?”

“...yes.” 

Still seated, Sam places his hands in his lap, and closes his eyes. His brow furrows in concentration. Aaron looks around the room for a sign of the proposed something. This is far from a typical new patient appointment. 

Nothing happens for the first fifteen seconds. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. 

“Fuck,” Aaron yips. He grabs onto the computer monitor in momentary panic. “Holy shit.” 

Euphoria hits him in waves. Blue waves. Blue, rhythmic, calming waves. Like smoking ten joints. Or knocking back a shot of expensive whiskey. It’s a high without the impairment of any senses. It feels spectacular. His entire body thrums, as if he’s a phone plugged into its charger. 

“Stop.” He busts out into a fit of giggles. He bends over, laughing so hard tears roll down his face. 

Sam severs the connection and Aaron spins around on his stool.

“Woooooow. Wee!” 

“I figured you could use some of that,” Sam murmurs with a knowing smile. 

Aaron melts. His eyes flutter. His shoulders? Like butter. Worry? What worry? He’s on top of the world. He could march right up to the chairman of the board and blow a huge fucking raspberry on his tummy and tell him to stick this job up his…

Oh.

Shit.

The temperature in the room drops from slightly chilly to Arctic. He can see his breath. Before he can open his mouth to question this, pain slams against his temples, forcing him to close his eyes and cry out.

The door to the room swings open and a pair of heavy boots enter.

Dean. 

“Fuck this parking system. Not a single one of those punk kids doing valet knew how to properly handle my car. You think I’m gonna fork over my car to someone born yesterday? I parked in lot What the Fuck and took up two spaces on purpose. Let me tell you something, yeah, you, in the white get up. If I find a ticket on my car, I’m sending it to you, med school.” 

The situation went from coming down from a wonderful high to… having a velociraptor in the room. 

A very angry, irritated, and protective velociraptor. 

Dean looks down on Aaron, arms crossed over his chest. “You gonna talk or you just gonna stare at my ass and bill us five hundred bucks?” 

“No one’s gonna pay five hundred dollars to stare at your ass,” Sam snaps and yanks Dean over to him. “Sit. It’s no one’s fault but your own for parking in Siberia. At least you had the sense to remember your cane.”

“I had to! The parking lot’s one big pot hole!” Dean points at Aaron. “Do  _ you _ park with the rest of us mere mortals?” 

If he wasn’t anxious at the beginning, he sure as hell is now. 

“Dean. Stop pointing.”

“I’m asking him a question.”

“Well stop.” 

“I didn’t book this appointment for us to sit here and stay quiet.”

“Did you book it to be a grumpy old fart? Because that’s what you’re doing. Shut it.” Sam turns to Aaron. “I’m so sorry about him. I’d like to say this isn’t his usual behavior, but it is.” 

Dean takes his cane and pokes Sam’s shoe with it. However, despite that, he remains wordless. 

So it’s true. Of course it’s true. The only person in the world, Heaven, or Hell, who can make Dean Winchester shut up is Sam Winchester. 

“That  _ is  _ among my many talents,” Sam quips, with a smile. “We were about to get started, isn’t that right, Doctor?” 

“Aaron is fine,” he sighs, relieved. “Well. Uh. First let me thank you for coming here. I received everything from previous hospitals. You were last seeing Dr. Gupta, is that correct?” 

Sam nods. Dean opens his mouth. Sam knocks their knees together and Dean closes his mouth. 

Aaron pulls up the database and verifies more information. “And your last MRI was three months ago. From what I read of the report, plus your most recent labs, everything looks fine. I like that they did a carotid doppler.” He pulls up an image of the ultrasound, turns the screen to face them, and circles points of interest. “You see there’s no narrowing of the carotid arteries in your neck, which means blood is flowing like it should to the brain. I see no signs of arteriosclerosis.” 

He turns the screen back and types in a few notes. 

“That’s great,” Sam beams. “That’s a relief to hear from someone who gets this stuff. You know,  _ all _ the stuff.” 

Dean frowns, less pleased by the news. “Yeah, yeah, Gupta told us all that. I wanna know about--whatever you guys call it,  _ all _ the stuff. If Sam keeps doing it, is he gonna have another stroke?” He turns to Sam. “And I know you do shit I can’t see when you think I’m not paying attention.” 

Innocently, Sam shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Laundry does not fold itself, Sam.” 

“It’s very talented laundry, Dean.” 

“So you’re risking your grapefruit just to fold the goddamn laundry? Tell him he’s crazy.” 

“He isn’t that kind of doctor,” Sam huffs. “Besides. I’m not crazy.” 

Aaron has seen this scenario hundreds, possibly thousands of times with married patients. He just hadn’t expected to see it from Sam and Dean Winchester. 

Some casual, almost flippant remark from Bobby all those years back echoes in his head.

_ They ain’t the way you think of brothers, kid. They’re more than. Leave it at that. _

Huh. 

Dean taps his cane on the floor to get Aaron’s attention. “Yo, med school. We can argue at home for free. You wanna answer my question?” 

Aaron stands up and washes his hands in the sink by the window. He asks Sam to please sit on the exam table. Dean also stands, and leans against the wall right next to the table. 

Two pairs of extra observant eyes follow his every movement. Fortunately for Aaron, these are movements committed to muscle memory. Almost like a dance. He goes through the usual motions: heart, lungs, eyes, mouth, throat. 

Swinging his stethoscope back around his neck, Aaron then pulls up his sleeves. He clears his throat.

“Gupta was very thorough with imaging. He used to work here, you know. I’d trust him with my own mother’s care. But my mother doesn’t have that... talent. Did Gupta know?” 

“No,” Dean answers, his words clipped. “And before him, we transferred hospitals.” 

“I kind of freaked out the ER and the specialists at UIC,” Sam interjects, his tone calmer. “When Dean got me to the ER, they had to nail down furniture in the room and remove all the sharp objects. I kept throwing scalpels into the walls like darts when they’d try to touch me.”

“Did they ask you not to come back?” 

Sam shrugs. “It wasn’t that so much as I didn’t wanna be on anyone’s radar. So we bounced once I was stable and found Dr. Gupta at NU.” 

“And you haven’t had any issues since?”

“If by issues you mean another stroke…” Sam looks at the floor. “No. I haven’t had another stroke.”

“I got your name from a reliable source,” Dean says, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, but looking directly at Aaron. “They said you could be trusted to keep your mouth shut.”

“The hunter seal of approval,” Aaron muses. “Did Gupta start asking questions?” 

“More like he just didn’t know,” Sam clarifies, exhaustion clear in his voice. “I tried bringing it up, but he’s a civvie. And if I’m gonna be honest, I realized a civvie can’t help, even if they give me good news.”

Aaron taps the metal side of his stethoscope to his chin--a habit he picked up in his early days on the job. His sister calls it his Winnie the Pooh moment: think, think, think. 

“Think of it this way,” Aaron proposes, trying to keep his tone even. “You’re introducing a new piece to the puzzle. A critically important piece for which there isn’t solid medical literature on.” 

Dean gives a dramatic sign and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great. Just great. A dead end.” 

“Not entirely,” Aaron snaps. “I’m just clarifying--further study is needed. That’s true for a lot of cases.” He turns to Sam and tries to block out the grumpy presence next to them. “What’s the easiest to do for you? Would you say it’s levitating a pencil or…?” 

Sam takes a second to think. He rubs his chin, then runs his hand through his hair. “I… I’m not sure. I haven’t thought about it on a scale before.” A second later, Sam turns red and elbows Dean. “Stop. I’m trying to concentrate.” 

“Just giving you suggestions,” Dean snickers and rolls his eyes. “Communication. That’s easiest.” 

“Communication between the two of you?” Aaron asks, astonished. “Really? That’s fascinating.” 

“Yes, okay, that’s the easiest,” Sam acknowledges. “But I can do things without thinking or being awake. That’s the scary part. Sometimes. Like. When I was in the ER, they sedated me, and shit still happened. Or maybe I’ll wake up from a nightmare and find stuff broken around the room. Or two rooms over. If I’m stressed, sometimes plates in the cupboards will snap in half. When we… uh…” 

Dean snorts. “Engage in physical activity.” 

This time, it’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Yes. Thank you. Things will move around in the room. Heavy things. Dressers. Nightstands. Chairs.” 

Aaron takes out a notepad. He won’t be typing this stuff into the database, that’s for fucking sure. “Does this continue to happen post-stroke?” 

“Yes.”

“On a daily basis?”

“I wish,” Dean mutters, then receives an elbow to the ribs. “Hey!” 

“No,” Sam growls, then softens his tone. “It doesn’t get out of control on a daily basis. I don’t always have nightmares. I’m not always stressed. But I do… knowingly use it on a daily basis.” 

“Do you feel lightheaded afterwards?” 

“No.”

“Do you experience nose bleeds?” 

“No. Not anymore. That was… years and years ago.”

“Headaches? Migraines? Nausea? Hives? Rapid heartbeat?”

“No, none of those.” 

“Speech difficulty? Face drooping? Arm weakness?” 

“No. I feel fine after I do anything with it. I had the speech difficulty and face droop after the stroke.”

“You’re a year out,” Aaron affirms. “You’ve made good progress.” He makes a few more notes. “You’ve resumed all normal activities?” 

“Yup. I’m back at work--part-time for now.”

Dean yawns. “For always, Professor.” 

“That’s a discussion for another time,” Sam snaps. “And I’ve been jogging again. I think I lost a lot of muscle tone, but I’m getting there.”

“How far do you jog?”

“Five miles, three times a week.”

“Good. Healthy diet?”

“Healthier than his,” Sam laughs. “But yeah, that’s all good.” 

Aaron sits down. He taps his fingers on the desk. Ask. It’s just a question. It’s an appropriate question. He’s a doctor. It’s his job to ask. He’s not TMZ, collecting and twisting words to fit his agenda. 

He tries to maintain a casual tone of voice, something along the lines of please don’t murder me. “What happens during sex? Can you expand on what happens when you ‘engage in physical activity’?” 

Surprisingly, Dean turns red. Before Dean can snarl or snap, Sam answers. 

“Aaron,” he says, turning on the infamous Sam Winchester puppy eyes, “I don’t often disclose details about our relationship. I trust that everything I share will remain confidential.” 

Neither Winchester has to say it out loud what will happen to Aaron if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut. 

He knows. 

“Yes. Of course. You have my word.” 

Sam’s body language changes from tense to slightly less tense. He exchanges a look with Dean, who in turn, shrugs and motions to Aaron. A silent conversation occurs. Sam turns back to Aaron. 

“It’s like this,” he starts, then closes his eyes. “We’ll be… in the middle of… sex…” 

“He’s a doctor,” Dean whispers loudly. “He’s seen worse things than two old farts humping away at each other.” 

“I know that!” Sam glares, then closes his eyes again. “Don’t interrupt me. Anyway.” Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “In the middle of it, when I’m… feeling really good…” 

“When I’m fucking him into the mattress.” 

“Dean!” 

“He said be specific!” 

“There is no need to be… graphic!” 

“Dude’s forty years old! He knows what sex is!” He looks at Aaron. “You know what sex is, right?” 

Cornered, Aaron nods.

He notices one of the files on his desk move slightly to the right. 

“There you go,” Dean announces. “Our doctor knows that you, Sam Winchester, ride my dick like it’s 1999.” 

Sam covers his face.

“Like you’re in the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby.”

Aaron’s pen falls off the desk.

“One more,” Sam threatens, “and your ass gets to sit in the lobby.” 

Dean gives a resigned, dramatic sigh, then mimics zipping his lips and throwing away the key. 

Pushing to get through this over with, Sam blurts out his words.

“When I’m close to orgasm, furniture starts moving. It’s intense. I mean, the moments before orgasm are intense. I… we… you know that feeling I shared with you at the beginning? I can… do that to Dean… in a different way… during it. And he can respond to it just the same. And… we’re… his voice is always in my head, but especially during… when I’m riding him and I’m close and we’re connected and on the same wavelength and I feel… so good. Not just physically--it goes deeper than that. We get in sync. And… when I… there’s a burst of energy right before, I don’t know who starts it, but it peaks and I feel really good, really, really good… his hands all over me, pressing, pulling, grinding… it just builds and builds and builds until…” 

The faucet in the sink turns on at full blast. Water gushes. 

The cupboard doors above the sink burst open. Boxes of exam gloves fly out and jars of cotton balls fall to the floor, but shatter into pieces before landing. 

The blinds covering the window roll up, the bright light of the afternoon spilling into the room. 

No one moves. 

Sam, flushed and panicked, starts to apologize profusely. 

Dean moves to be directly in front of Sam and places his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Sammy, it’s okay.” His thumbs swipe at Sam’s tears. “Sammy. It’s alright. We can replace stuff. Sammy. Listen to me.” 

Aaron gingerly walks towards the window to lower the blinds. “It’s fine, really, I… I’ve had kids in here do much worse than that.” 

He gets to the window and the blinds lower on their own. 

Nervously, Aaron comments, “But perhaps it’s best you don’t use that talent for the rest of the day.” 

“That was me,” Dean growls. “Give us a second.” 

“I’m fine,” Sam insists, breathing hard, crying. “Dean, I’m fine.” 

Standing to the side, at a distance, Aaron gently chimes in. “Are you experiencing any discomfort? Blurred vision? Migraine?” 

“No,” Sam hiccups. “No, I’m just… overwhelmed.” 

Aaron pieces together his memories of Sam the night Bobby called him in. Sam placed such an emphasis on not showing the amount of pain or stress he was in. He suppressed it. All hunters do. It’s one of the first lessons taught: never show weakness. Pain is weakness. Stress is weakness. Emotional vulnerability is weakness. Cut that shit down. Bottle it up. Push it away. 

A bullet to the shoulder hurts. 

Death and rebirth hurts. 

A hunter’s life is nothing but one big hurt after another. 

Dean takes a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes Sam’s face. He clears the snot from Sam’s nose. He pushes Sam’s hair away from his face. He presses their foreheads together.

Not a single thing in the world exists outside of the two of them in this moment. 

Aaron relaxes. For the first time today, he feels his shoulders let go of tension and his mind clears. 

“There you go,” Dean murmurs. “Feel that?” 

Sam nods. 

“Good.” Dean stands straight, though his hands never leave Sam. He glances over his shoulder to Aaron. “So, med school,” he says, his voice soft. “What’s next?” 

Later on, Aaron will input into the system that Sam Campbell is healthy. He’s shown remarkable progress and continues to improve after his first and only stroke one year ago. The official notes will detail that they talked about the importance of a healthy diet, regular check ups, and to keep an eye out for any concerning signs or symptoms. Aaron will recommend a six month follow up visit--standard imaging and labs with a consultation afterwards. 

He will also note in the record, that Sam Campbell has a reliable support system at home.

In his private notes--a leather bound book his mother gave him after his first hunt--he’ll note that it isn’t just Sam Winchester who shows psychic abilities. 

“In order to rule out this piece of the puzzle from any potential future risk, I would suggest an fMRI in three months. One where we monitor brain activity while completing a simple task using that talent.” 

Dean’s eyes narrow. “At the hospital?” 

Aaron shrugs. “I have connections to ensure privacy. No one will be poking and prodding.” 

From behind Dean, Sam chimes in, his voice less shaky. “That sounds reasonable.” 

“Good,” Aaron replies, smiling as he stands on broken glass. “Then I’ll see you in three months?” 

Dean helps to steady Sam as he slides off the exam table. Sam begins to apologize again and offers to clean up. Aaron waves him off. He takes a business card out of the front pocket of his lab coat and writes down the number to his burner phone. 

“Call me if anything feels off or anything happens. In the meantime, I’ll put some feelers out to folks who know more about the psychic stuff and have the proper equipment.” 

Sam shakes his hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” 

Dean claps Aaron on the back. He opens the door for Sam. “Thanks, med school. For the shoulder and the noodle.” He smiles. “I never forget a face.” 

Aaron survives his brush with the Winchesters for the second time in his life. 

He retreats into the Reading Room and starts making some calls. 

**Author's Note:**

> hellooooo! i have 4,500 words for you today! :O
> 
> super shout out to my beta Deb. <3 and thank you for comments on the last TCV installment--they inspired this work! we get to address the health issues and the psychic issues in one go. :D i liked writing from Aaron's pov, it was a nice change! 
> 
> if you enjoy my work, and would like to support me outside of AO3, please visit my tumblr: compo67.tumblr.com. 
> 
> comments are love! i'm so excited to see what y'all think of this. thank you! :D


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